


File Cabinet 56

by twinklylittlestar



Category: business business
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:16:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinklylittlestar/pseuds/twinklylittlestar
Summary: File Cabinet 56 documents everything related to Business Business for future reference.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: business business cinematic universe





	1. The Dairy Farm Tragedy (12/9/20)

The dairy farm was a peaceful place. It was open to the public and known as a place of tranquility. Peace, of course, is temporary. It is always inevitably corrupted by chaos in one way or another. Usually, this chaos derived from nature. Environmental nature, or, most commonly, human nature.

Such was the case at the serene dairy farm one day. Viridia was a dedicated worker at the dairy farm, churning out weekly, occasionally daily, dairy products to provide to customers. They were usually quite popular. On one particular occasion, she created a new milk product: "Oh Shit". She, being the diligent worker she was, was sure to advertise that there was no shit present in the milk.

Business was going smoothly as per usual before a peculiar customer came in. The infamous Bread Man, who at the time was Bread Boy, approached the counter cautiously. Viridia recognized him from the local bakery. Typically he was hard at work there, but today, he'd gotten a day off.

"Can I get an inkling of 'Oh Shit'?"

Viridia, of course, complied and slid him a bottle.

"That will be two. Don't look too hard at the product; you might get an existential crisis."

The Bread Boy ignored her warning, rummaging through his apron pockets and pulling out a dusty violin case, the number '2' stained on the case with bleach. He set it down on the counter, replacing the milk product as he put it in his pocket. Curious as to what was inside, the dairy worker opened the case, which burst open the moment she undid the hooks.

She was met with a bizarre sight: 47 severed hands flew out into her face. Though dazed, she maintained her composure.

"You overpay me, this is worth at least three. May I return... uh... _two minus one... thirty something..._ eight of them?"

Bread Boy pointed to the '2' on the violin case.

"Duos," he responded ambiguously.

Not wanting to slow down business, she nodded. 

"Acceptable, okay. Have a nice day," the worker quickly blurted out as Bread Boy left, beginning to collect her payment in a big jar. Strangely, though, only 46 were there. She was sure there were originally 47, and the customer clearly did not take any. A friend, Annabel, who worked at the knife shop in the nearby alleyway, happened to enter the store at the same time.

"Hi, sorry to interrupt," she began, distress evident in her tone. "Do you have any more 'Oh Shit' in stock? I need... a... uh. A lot of it."

But Viridia was too dazed by what was unfolding before her. Hands were disappearing in a blink of an eye. 45. 44. 43. 42. 41. What sounds like slapping fills the air as one by one, her payment disappeared before her eyes. The payment that she had so rightfully deserved for her hard work was vanishing before her eyes. She wasn't going to let them slip away so quickly.

Instinctively, she snatched the jar, trying to use it un-vanish them. Strangely, though, the jar was cold to the touch. She quickly let go of it, her fingertips aching from its coldness. The worker glanced back at the counter. The case, too, had disappeared. There were 35.

Annabel spoke up. "Yo, is there any way I can help?" she finally asked after having watched her friend suffer for long enough.

"I don't know!" the worker cried despairingly. "Figure something out!" 

29 remained. Annabel, being the quick problem solver she was, jumped in and began to devour a hand before it could disappear. Its juices were still fresh.

Still, the hands continued to disappear. The girls looked at each other with puzzled, desperate faces, when one of the hands generated a sheet of paper, which unfurled from between the webbing of its fingers. Curiously, Viridia picked it up. 

A flag. A certain flag. A blue background with a yellow triangle and white stars dotting its hypotenuse.

Viridia's desperation, mixed with newfound confusion, began to take a hold of her mind, clouding her sensibility. She extracted a knife and stabbed through one of the remaining hands. The rest continued to evaporate. The sound of slapping still echoed through the room.

A second scroll was generated. A red, white, and blue-striped background, with a checkered coat of arms in the center. Once again, the dairy farmer was left confused, now resorting to attaching a hand to her wrist with a kabob skewer. The pain in her wrist made her wince, but it was nowhere near the pain of watching her well-deserved payment vanish before her eyes.

Annabel, out of frustration, tossed a hand on the floor, near where Bread Boy once stood. It did nothing, of course.

A new flag unfurled. A scarlet red background with the silhouettes of a double-headed eagle was printed on it.

21 hands remained. The dairy worker was beyond saving. In her final attempt to save the payment, she shoved the hands in the blender, cramming them all inside despite there being far too many to fit properly, and blended it into dairy. 

_You are getting greedy, dairy farmer_ , boomed a godly presence. No, it was not godly. It was only Bread Boy's mockery echoing in Viridia's mind. A final flag was released. A red and yellow background, diagonally separated, with a triskeles symbol. In the center was a head with wings and three wheat ears. 

The dairy worker let out a tired sigh, seating herself at the counter stool. She hopelessly watched the hands disappear, having let go of all determination. 

The Business Business CEO, at that moment, had decided to drop by. The knowledgeable man confronted the counter, finding 15 hands laying on the counter. Yet the flags that sat in their palms caught his attention instead.

"The flag of Bosnia and Herzegovnia!" he exclaimed excitedly, gesturing to the first flag.

The hands began to return. 15. 16. 17. 

"WHAT?" the dairy farmer cried in shock.

18\. 19. 20. 21. 

The CEO picked up the second flag. "And Croatia."

22\. 23. 24. 25. A new flag presented itself. 

Out of shock, despair, and exhaustion, the dairy farmer was suddenly struck by a heart attack and temporarily died. The CEO ignored his friend's passing, for he knew that the dairy farmer was immortal.

"Easy. Paraguay," he continued.

Annabel could only watch. "Man, I was hoping to get a bit of 'Oh Shit' and now I'm being given a lesson on flags," she said, leaning against the wall as she observed the CEO. 

A final flag unfurled in front of the CEO like a printed receipt. 35. The hands began to dash to the door. 

Viridia, now having been revived by some miracle, shot up and locked the door from the outside before the hands could march out. Though she had nothing on her, she ran off to start a new life. Perhaps at the CEO's cafe or something. She'd figure it out. She just needed to escape.

As the hands bumped into the locked door, they began to disappear once more. The CEO finally began to process the bigger picture, but still remained stoic. The sound of slurping began to fill the air. 

"Are they... are they drinking the milk?" Annabel asked, looking for where hands had gone. And indeed they were. Though disappearing by the second, the remaining hands sucked the milk from the bottles by the liter. 

_You cannot escape your fate,_ taunted Bread Boy in the dairy farmer's head as she slowed her sprint down the sidewalk. She was still quite near the farm, unfortunately. Perhaps mental Bread Boy had a point. She began to head back speedily, despite her hamstrings aching from her previous run. After fumbling with her key-ring for a few moments, she unlocked the door and burst in, panting heavily. She looked up, and saw that the hands she had so desperately been trying to get back were now taking away the things she had treasured most. She had been so laser-focused on receiving payment for her products, that she'd forgotten the pride and dedication she had poured into her products. And now, the hands were reminding her of her neglect.

22 hands remained now. The farmer was content with this number. She resumed her shift, prying the hands off of her products. But of course, satisfaction (like the serenity of the farm) doesn't last. The hands began to multiply again out of rage, but one took mercy on the three and generated yet another flag. A red field with a gold border, with a golden coat of arms in the center.

The CEO had briefly left to close the cafe early in order to assist. Annabel was the only one left to help the worn farmer. 

"Albania."

23\. 24. 25. 26.

"Oh, wait, that would be the black-bird flag..."

 _ **"WHY ARE THE HANDS DOING THIS?"** _the farmer cried softly. She was very close to curling up in the corner of the back room.

The CEO returned once more, quickly running up to see what flag had been generated.

"Montenegro!" he said.

The hands continued to multiply. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. The hands spilled out onto the floor. There was a distinct sound of weeping. The farmer, who'd been fed up with this gimmick long ago, took the skewer out of her wrist and murdered the weeping figure. She was at her wit's end. She just wanted to go home and sleep. A nice, long night's rest was what she needed. What she really, really needed. But her job kept her.

The hands were gleefully rampaging the room. One sympathetic hand handed the CEO another flag. Red and blue strips with a crown at the top left. 

"Ooooh," the CEO cooed. "Clearly European."

Annabel quickly searched it up. She needed this torture to end.

"But a crown must mean royalty?"

"Liechtenstein," she declared, interrupting his train of thought.

There was a silence. Not a stir, not a breath, not a soul was heard for that moment. Silence at its purest engulfed the scene. The tranquility of the farm began to return.

Then suddenly, the sound of curdling broke the peace. Curdling from where? The farmer stood up and looked into the dairy bottle. From elsewhere, the dairy farmer's wife burst in. 

"What in the living fuck is going on in here?!" Frostiii shrieked. "Who has awoken me from my nap?!"

"There's a lot of hands," responded a defeated Annabel, who had stepped far away from the scene. "And a couple of flags."

The farmer dug her head into her hands. Where was the curdling coming from?

 _Farmer,_ boomed a familiar voice in her mind. _Look upon your store._

And so she did. She took a nice step back and looked around, her products catching her gaze. Every milliliter of milk had been curdled into cheese. Gruyere cheese, more specifically. The hands forced open the door and promptly left. The dairy farmer's eyes watered as she collapsed to her knees and began to quietly sob.

"Mmm, wifey! Solid dairy," her wife cheerfully said, joining Viridia.

"New product?" Annabel asked, also joining the two. 

The farmer was too distressed to think of marketing. Her hard work. Her prized possessions. Her pride. Curdled into fucking gruyere cheese.

"YOU EAT YOUR SOLID DAIRY. I'M BROODING."

\---

The next day rolled around soon after. The farmer, having now calmed down after a night's rest, established a new product: "This Was A Solid Experience". It was shaped like a hand. Though she had made money off of her misfortune, the farmer still couldn't help but lament her loss after her shift. A single tear rolled down her cheek. A hand attempted to comfort her, patting her cheek. It was a severed hand. Startled, it squelched, and it was gone. The last bit of Viridia's dignity had left her within that moment. In front of a customer who had asked for the new product, she cut off her hands and walked off to the back room. Her wife dutifully followed.

The Bread Boy waltzed in, large specks of flour still on his apron. His three-piece suit was crisp as per usual. The farmer crawled out of the back room to meet him.

"Bread Boy," she hoarsely screamed, hot tears streaming down her face. "You bring death to us. I mourn and you cannot give a thing. You are to retrieve it yourself."

"I have done nothing," he responded nonchalantly.

"Wife, we still have like... 20 cows," Frostiii calmly reassured.

"The cow's udders are plentiful _and_ liquid."

The farmer continued. "Bread Boy, you ruin my stock with your hands."

"The hands were not mine!" he replied defensively yet calmly. "They were a gift. I sent my grandmother the wish list but she still only got me hands." He slipped his hands into his suit pockets, slightly hanging his head. "I was attempting to regift. This is my sin."

"Bread Boy, you find me in a state of brooding. The grandmother is to go into outer space. I am to cry and cry _alone_ now," she blubbered nasally. Out of pity, the baker handed Viridia a boule, not noticing her lack of hands.

"Place it on the back table. I will retrieve it when my limbs regenerate."

Instead, he slipped it into her pocket. "Give it to your cows. They shall be abundant."

"Brilliant. Thank you." She stood up shakily, wiping the snot and tears from her face. "I go into the cafe tonight."

"See you there. I need a stiff espresso."


	2. Annabel's Existential Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This occurs shortly after the Dairy Farm Tragedy. I would suggest you read the previous installment in the file cabinet before reading this for context, but it's not needed too badly.

The world of Business Business is fulfilling but demanding. No human being should be subject to such a working environment that the company provides, but alas, the promise of power and profit is too alluring for one to resist.

Annabel is one such victim to their schemes. The knife shop, snugly located next to the plant cafe, is one of the most notable businesses in the Business Business branch. Its innovative selling strategy, combined with her likability, boosted her profits by quite a bit when the shop first opened. So much so, it caught the attention of Business Business's board of directors. Naturally, they were insistent on accepting her business into the company. Though she was hesitant, the company's persistence brought her to hesitantly comply.

That was her first mistake.

The course of her career as the shop owner from there drastically changed. Entering this company was like biting into the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge. She'd be given unworldly insight that any philosopher would dream of, but at the cost of the joy of simply living. Now, anything could trigger a crisis.

Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

Still, she managed to handle it. She was an resilient, cool-headed entrepreneur in the knife business. She would not let herself collapse over a company with a dumb name. And so she proceeded. As her business grew and grew, so did the pressure of being part of Business Business. She received little pay, under the company's value that the privilege itself is worth a lifetime, so supplies remained limited despite their promise of increased profit. The routine established in her life numbed her senses. Her brain was constantly on autopilot. Routine is to establish a feeling of comfort, but with such an unstable financial situation, she felt that a wrong move could ruin her. The instability was masked by an illusion of comfort. " _How deceptive. How cruel. How inhumane!"_ she'd bitterly curse. That's all she could do about it anyways.

Annabel felt helpless, but she would do what she could to make ends meet. She needed food on the table and bills to be paid somehow. 

The Business Business marketing strategy didn't rely on understanding of economics or logistics. They didn't exploit customer service to their own advantage. No, they exploited the customer themselves. Logical strategy could never defeat the whims of human nature, and it was subtly yet surely used against anyone they wished. Annabel understood this, having been under the company for several weeks now. It didn't take a genius to understand the corrupt, manipulative ways of the Business Business grind, once it was acknowledged. And boy, was the company good at keeping it under their customers' noses. 

To rise to the top, Annabel concluded, she'd have to use the same strategy against them. Her actions were defined by values, however. She had to compromise. 

Across the city of California was a small dairy farm with two workers. A farmer named Viridia and her wife Frostiii. They seemed like bright, cheerful individuals. But what mattered most was that Viridia was friends with the CEO.

The CEO of Business Business. The CEO she was to overtake. 

Though her plan was barely developed, it was there. And Annabel didn't have the time to further develop it.

All she could think about was survival.

Flash forward a few weeks, and Annabel had accomplished her goal. Viridia trusted her enough for her to be present on the farm. Though she only came occasionally, when Annabel did visit it, they had the most wonderful time together.

That is until it happened.

Possibly the worst day of the year.

The Dairy Farm Tragedy.

Annabel could only hopelessly watch her friend fall into a pit of despair. Her desperation to keep what little bit of payment she had turned against her and ruined the craft she had taken pride in all these months. In a way, it was similar to Annabel's dilemma. But what was pending on her mind at that moment, after seeing her friend's joy crumble like sand, her aspiration to rise to the top crumbled with it. Her original intention was to use to her clamor up the hierarchy, but along the way she'd grown attached in a sense. She'd come to like Viridia for her chaotic unpredictability. And to see her dreams decimated in an instant like that, and not being able to do anything about it, hurt her.

A striking realization hit her in the head, like an anvil dropping from the sky in a cartoon. Perhaps it was the work of the fruit she'd bitten into so long ago.

Was it so long ago? It felt like it was.

It was the realization that the world can change. Of course, everyone knew this, but only when one experienced such an instant, traumatic event such as the Dairy Farm Tragedy are they able to fully process what this change can truly be. In an instant, the world you had become so used to can fade away before your eyes. All the efforts you've put forth can disappear with it. And there's nothing one can do about it. One can definitely control the things in their own little worlds, and their actions come with consequences. Not ones you can necessarily foresee, though. They just... _happen_. But even then, one's life is only a life. In the scheme of things, their significance is only defined by their existence. If their existence hasn't been used for something worthwhile, does it hold no significance?

This brainwashing of never-ending crises wasn't unintentional, either. Everything in terms of Business Business was calculated. Every action made, every thought that was thought, every event that occurred was plotted extensively. The Business Business grind, Annabel finally realized, stripped her of the control she had over her life. The thought of business corrupted her mind to a point where everything she did was controlled by it.

It was inevitable, and she could only succumb and accept it.

But it wasn't such a horrid life. She could be lying on the street homeless. But perhaps that bit of gratefulness was planted by Business Business, too. Augh, whatever. It was the bit of optimism that kept her from the brink of insanity. 


	3. The Business Trip (12/27/20)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How our beloved baker went from Bread Boy to Bread Man in three days through a change of scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty boring. I recommend reading this if you absolutely have nothing else to do with your life, which I'm sure you do. This is also completely historically inaccurate. Though that should be fairly obvious, it's worth putting it out there. Thank you for your time.

It was an early morning at the plant cafe. A very early morning; 1 AM to be exact. Viridia groggily placed the newest product on display: "It's 1 AM And I Want To play Nier:Automata But The Mother And All The Family Is Asleep And I Have Not Slept And All My Brain Functions Are Shutting The Fuck Down". 

Somehow, someone besides Viridia was awake. Bread Boy. He'd always been a person shrouded in mystery and ambiguity. He walked through the glass door, hitting a little bell that hung from the top of the door frame. She tiredly looked up.

"Can I get an ottoman of 'It's 1 AM And I Want To play Nier:Automata But The Mother And All The Family Is Asleep And I Have Not Slept And All My Brain Functions Are Shutting The Fuck Down'?" 

"Why do you ask for furniture at one in the morning?"

"No, the empire."

She sat there in bewilderment. Was her exhaustion getting to her or did she really just hear that with her two ears?

"Why do you ask for an _empire_ at one in the morning?" 

"Do I not get one?"

Viridia sighed and let her bee hands teleport to the back room. Though she missed her human hands, bee hands weren't such a bad alternative. They promptly returned with an Ottoman Empire-sized mug of coffee, accompanied by a ticket to the empire itself. 

"Get a straw before you fly out. It's an entire empire o' coffee after all."

The warmth of the mug in Bread Boy's hand comforted him. It gave his cold heart a feeling of coziness. But this couldn't deter him from his goal. He quickly put the mug of coffee in his bottomless apron pockets, clutching the ticket in his other hand.

"What do I owe you?"

"10,000."

 _How petty of you to overprice me_ , he thought to himself. Of course, not a shred of frustration was visible on his face. From his suit pockets, he pulled out a few handfuls of rice and began to count them individually, stacking the counted grains in a separate pile. 

_Do you mean to spite me?_ the cafe worker bitterly wondered, letting out an exasperated sigh. _I feel nothing but terror from your actions._

In response, the Bread Boy gave her a sardonic smile. He had finished; the 10,000 rice grains had formed a 3D statue of Hollywood actress Natasha Lyonne. 

"What -- respectfully -- the fuck?"

He dusted the bit of rice starch off his suit and undid his apron, folding it in his arms as he headed out the door. 

"Enjoy your rice Natasha Lyonne. I'm off to the Ottoman Empire."

With no words left to say, Viridia went home to rest. But Bread Boy was only just getting started.

\---

The bakery, which was usually open daily, was closed today. Bread Boy busily packed a travel suitcase. He was a master at packing; after all, he'd been able to fit 47 severed hands into a suitcase, which he was using now. The small stains of dried blood didn't bother him so much. He packed his suits, his aprons, packaged bread items, and all of the essentials, and dashed out the back door of his quaint bakery.

The airport was particularly busy this time of the year, especially since Business Business had decided to give their employees their annual vacation. While many were using their time for leisure, Bread Boy was dedicating this time to his own business. There was a reason behind his success despite little support from the company, after all, though no one knew what it was. Bread Boy often took trips. Business trips, he'd call them. He claimed he only went there to trade goods with others for Business Business's sake. But he always returned not only with exchanged goods, but newfound profit for himself.

As he waited for the plane to be ready for boarding, he combed back his slick hair with his fingers. He was a patient man. After all, the art of making bread is all about waiting for the perfect time. But patience has its limits. And it was about to reach it. The plane had already landed for business's sake. One would think that it was prepping for the next flight, but from what he could see they were standing idly by. And surely it didn't take forty minutes for a crew of flight attendants to clean up such a small, insignificant plane. Frustrated, he took his suitcase and walked up to the lady at the front.

"Pardon me," he said with a polite smile, suppressing his emotions. "But when will we be able to board?"

"Not for another twenty minutes," she said curtly with a distinct Turkish accent. 

_Twenty minutes? You're telling the bread connoisseur that he is to wait for another twenty minutes for a flight that was ready probably ten minutes ago?_

He slid her the ticket Viridia gave him. "It says 10:50. It's now 11:20-something." 

"Sir, I apologize, but it's still not quite ready yet. If you're not in business class, you'll have to wait for a bit longer."

"Then put me on business class," he sternly replied. "I can pay extra."

"That's not how it works."

 _This woman._ He smiled and slid her his business card.

The lady widened her eyes.

"Please don't hurt me," she quickly uttered in Turkish.

"I'll see myself out." He let out a long sigh as he made his way down the airport transportation tube connected to the plane. He'd struck terror in one lady; now to strike terror in hundreds.

\---

The Ottoman Empire was beautiful. Its mosques were lavish but stunning; the domes and the long, thin towers were visible even from the distance between the plane and land. Bread Boy closed his eyes as he felt the plane descend beneath him, envisioning himself brushing his hand along the colonnades of the impressive structure. He felt its grooves and its history along his fingertips. He could taste the chamomile tea along his tongue as he sat in the center of the massive courtyard. He could see the inside of the mosque's domes; the hypnotic patterns painted with such precision and passion. What he couldn't sense, though, was the plane descending at a concerning speed. He couldn't hear the pilot's worry through the intercom, warning the passengers of a rocky landing. And he couldn't feel the passenger beside him forcing him to tuck his head under his arms to protect himself from any external impact. 

There was a loud crash proceeded by a long silence. Bread Boy grumbled softly as he awoke, rubbing his eyes. It felt toasty. Smelled of oil, too. As his vision cleared, he saw flames dance before him, growing as they ate the remnants of the plane. He was all by himself. But not completely by himself. His trusty suitcase had accompanied him throughout the ride. Though it wasn't a carry-on, he still crammed it under the seat in front of him anyways. He dusted off bits of debris off his lap and walked away from the scraps, whistling a small tune as he made his way to the local marketplace.

He stopped at a stand with a distinct blue and white striped tarp hanging from it and placed his briefcase down. A man approached him. A familiar man. He grinned widely, his yellow teeth and sour breath reminding Bread Boy of who he was. 

"We meet again, Berat," Bread Boy finally said coolly.

Berat pulled his white wife beater over his bulging pot belly, chuckling to himself. He was a merchant at the marketplace who was used as the middle man between business and the government. 

"So we do, Bread Boy. Although you'll be becomin' Bread Man real soon, eh?"

Bread Boy gave no response. The smirk on his face said it all.

"I hope you had a safe flight."

"It could have been better. Though we did make quite an entrance." 

"Alright... where's the goods at? I got mine." The merchant gestured to a crinkled brown bag.

"Right." He unzipped the front compartment of his worn leather suitcase, pulling out a hat box, decorated with rose patterns. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air. In return, Berat gave him a crumpled check and a key-ring with two brass keys hanging from it. The baker skimmed through the check. _400,000_. A satisfying amount. One would think that 400,000 dollars for an assortment of bread was a bit much, but this bread was crucial. It was essential to keep the foundation of the Ottoman Empire's government from collapsing. Ironically, it was Bread Boy who made the government so unstable in order to have it rely on him. Business was a fun game of Monopoly to him, and only he was winning.

"What's this key for?" he asked, jingling the first key in his hand.

"The estate you were promised."

Bread Boy's eyes twinkled. This estate was absolutely necessary to expand his business. It was located on a remote island in the Mediterranean, surrounded by lush scenery and the glittering oceans. He'd had his eye on the property for quite a while as to have a place for this sort of business to occur. And now it was his. 

"Okay, and the second?"

"For your room in the Erdogan."

The Erdogan was a luxurious mansion that belonged to the king. Only the most important and prestigious peoples stayed there. Prime ministers, presidents, royalty, and Bread Boy were among those important peoples.

"Lovely. And I assume we'll be resuming business there?"

Berat gave him a toothy grin. "Damn right."

\---

His room in the Erdogan was grand. Three chandeliers, composed of purely Swavroski crystals, glimmered with the flickering light from the candles. His bed was made of the finest materials, and his cotton sheets were handmade. He set down his suitcase on the white marble counter of the room's kitchen and plopped himself onto the plush mattress, letting out a heavy sigh. _I wonder if it's right of me to be doing what I've been doing_ , he wondered to himself, curling his body up and embracing his lower legs with his arms. _No. If Business Business is allowed to exploit others, let alone an entire state government, for personal gain, then I shouldn't be penalized for doing the same._

He sat up. He hadn't expressed even a bit of emotion in a long, long while. His image was pretty much synonymous with his serious demeanor. But one couldn't hide their true self forever, could they? Bread Boy's thin-lipped expression turned into a grimace as he recalled the day he agreed to be a part of Business Business. How quickly he was promoted for his excellent working performance, and how miserable he became from there. Bread Boy was truly a boy back then -- he was far too naive to realize the malicious intentions of Business Business. He was fooled by their guise of being a generous company who simply wanted to help those in need. And now here he was, following their footsteps in world domination via business. Was it such a surprise that he'd ended up on such a path? He had his power, identity, and happiness stripped from him the moment his pen touched the Business Business contract; it was only natural that he'd be so desperate to reclaim power to replace the void in his heart.

Bread Boy shook off his thoughts. Those lingering feelings of emptiness were a thing of the past and were to remain there. He extended his right leg, using his foot to nudge the long, gold-framed mirror to where he was and confronted himself in the mirror. He redid his lavender tie and briskly brushed back an out-of-place lock of hair on his temple. He checked his watch -- it was almost time for his meeting. He gave himself one last look in the mirror. The mirror looked back at him with empty, broken eyes. The baker quickly turned around. His reflection always betrayed him, anyways.

\---

The Erdogan's meeting room was more of a leisurely lounge. In the corner of a room, a servant dressed in thin white robe playing the zither. In another, a beautiful, seductive woman wrapped herself around a man's arm, giggling softly as she toyed with the emerald brooch on his suit pocket. The man in that corner turned his head as he jovially laughed and locked eyes with the baker. Bread Boy gave him a nod as he seated himself on a velvet lounge seat. 

"Pardon me, Benou," he softly said to the madame before trudging over. The man carried his borderline obese body on two meaty legs. The blood vessels in his face were quite dilated, and it seemed that a rosy-cheeked smile was imprinted into his face at all times.

"So you must be that bakery business partner I've heard so much about?" the man said, adjusting his expensive-looking suede suit. The fabric was dyed an unsightly dark orange.

"Ah, people have spoken of me?"

"Of course! Who wouldn't?" The man laughed, his cheeks glowing pink. "They all say you're a natural business mastermind for such a young man! Accompanied by your talent for baking artisan goods and such, you're the perfect addition to the Ottoman Empire's government."

His lips curled. "I'm glad to hear that. It's an honor to hold such an important role in the empire--"

"But it seems as though you're not as professional as I had thought you to be," the man said, eyeing Bread Boy's outfit. "What a cheap three-piece you've chosen to wear for such an important occasion. Hah! Young beginners like yourself should know your place in the societal hierarchy."

He got closer to Bread Boy's face with a threatening glare, a complete 180 switch from his joyful demeanor just a few seconds ago. He could smell the flowery perfume on his arm from the woman in the corner.

"And that's all the way at the damn bottom."

As more people poured into the room, he pulled away, letting out a hearty laugh. "Anyways, what's your name again?"

 _Goodness gracious. What was that...?_ "Just call me... Bread Boy. And yours?"

"Kahraman. Advisor to the sultan himself."

He held out a clammy hand for him to shake. He hesitantly shook it.

"I look forward ta' seeing your ideas soon, _Bread Boy_ ," he said with a sneer before walking off.

"Mm." He sat himself back onto his seat. _What's his deal?_ He fastened his tie and straightened his back, dismissing the thought as he poured himself a glass of apple juice.

Another man, who wore a leather mask over the lower half of his face, stood up onto a chair, gently hitting a wine glass with a spoon. The clinking silenced the room.

"We're all settled now?"

The man set down the dishware.

"Alright, so we are. If you haven't noticed, there's a bit of an elephant in the room." 

He gestured to Bread Boy, still standing on the chair. Everyone's gaze shifted to the quiet baker.

"This is the sultan's most trusted business partner. Very sharp lad, I must say. Might he like to say a word to us all?"

"Ah, sure. You may all call me Bread Boy. I do trading business with the Ottoman Empire, and I replenish the Ottoman people's insatiable desire for baked goods." He bowed courteously. "It's an honor to be able to meet you all."

"Likewise, likewise," the man replied with a chuckle. "You may call me Adanir. That's my surname. I serve as the sultan's spy, and I also am the landlord of the Erdogan."

Adanir pointed to a man in a glamorous violet fur coat.

"That would be Ihsan, the sultan's treasurer." His hand shifted to the left, pointing to a lanky male in a tuxedo. "That would be the sultan's most trusted butler. He does quite a bit of dirty work for him. You may just call him Yusef." 

Both of them nodded in greeting towards Bread Boy.

"And I'm sure you've already met Kahraman. Boisterous man who can't keep his mouth shut." The three men laughed as Kahraman flushed red with anger and embarrassment.

"But, enough with introductions. We're gathered here to discuss how shaken our economy has become. In fact, we were extremely lucky that Bread Boy offered to do business with us; otherwise the neighboring countries would have conquered us already."

The sultan's advisor gritted his teeth with envy. "Actually, Adanir, we would've done perfectly fine with Bread Boy's business. He's not essential to our society or anything particularly significant, as a matter of fact. I'm certain we can find better opportunities overseas."

"But have we, Kahraman? You said that last time and were unable to find anyone willing to trade with us. And that's mainly due to the wave of poverty that's hit the central empire, which is where most of the trade occurs. The people are deprived of grain because of a large brush fire, and baked goods were our main export. Which also adds to why Bread Boy's partnership is so critical."

Bread Boy smiled slyly. The events described were all orchestrated by him. The depletion of resources and poverty were all his doing in order to get the empire to rely on his business to restore themselves to their former glory. And here they were praising him for saving them in such a desperate time. 

"But surely we can't just solely rely on Bread Boy's stupid bakery," Kahraman bitterly retorted. "It's just a one-man business and it's all the way in California. California's not even a state anymore -- it collapsed into a really big city. What a pathetic place to start a business in! And what a stupid, sad name he has-"

"We gave him the estate to help him expand in order for business to continue!" 

"Do you think that pathetic little island is going to make much of a difference?!"

Bread Boy stood up. "No, Kahraman makes a fair point," he said with a stern tone, calming the feud between the two men. "My tiny little business cannot support an entire empire on its own. But, my business is actually a part of a larger company. Business Business. Surely you've heard of it."

"Are you suggesting we have _the_ Business Business support our empire? Would it not be hard to convince the entire company to help?"

"You may not realize this, but I'm a member of their board of directors. I hold quite a bit of power, if I do say so myself."

The men spoke softly among themselves. Bread Boy only watched, internally priding in himself for so smoothly suggesting such an idea. 

"... we're not opposed to the idea," Ihsan finally said. "We recommend you go to the sultan himself and propose it to him. It's certainly a big move... but if it can save our empire then it's a move worth making."

The baker folded his arms, a satisfied smirk stretching onto his face.

"Splendid."

\---

Bread Boy woke to the soft orange rays of the morning sun leaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto his face. He groaned as he stretched, quickly prepping himself for the day. He chose to wear his newest suit, which had a rich burgundy shade. It still smelled like the Brooks Brothers store he bought it from. He teased out the tangles in his hair and headed out of the hotel, with nothing but a folded contract in a large pocket on the inside of his suit jacket and a wallet.

He found it remarkable that even at such an early point in the day, the city was already bustling with traders and merchants getting ready to make sales. Even the stray cats were up and roaming about, looking to nab any scraps of food that might have fallen on the ground. He also found it remarkable that his presence alone was enough to make the peoples back away in fear. Though he wasn't surprised. Executing his plan to have the Ottoman Empire rely on him so much came at the cost of terrorizing the people into submission, after all. But what was most remarkable of all was that the government turned a blind eye to it, further upsetting the people, and hence corrupting the empire even more. Politics was a fun game to him. A fun, rigged game. 

He grumbled as he strolled down the streets. Though the morning breeze was fairly mild, it still blew the streets' sand onto his fresh suit. He quickly dusted it off as he walked, occasionally accidentally brushing it onto a civilian, whose tattered and worn clothing was already dirty to begin with. Bread Boy would apologize, of course, but gave it no second thought. They were mere pawns in his game, after all.

Finally, he neared the sultan's grand palace. The white domed tops of its towers were beginning to appear within his peripheral vision, and the breeze grew stronger. Luckily for him, there was no sand present. He checked the silver wristwatch on his wrist; on its face was a small baguette with a happy face on it. Staring back at it, though, was Bread Boy's cold and analyzing gaze. It read 10:20, just 40 minutes before the appointment time. He stood aside to dust off all the accumulated sand that nestled itself between the fine threads of the suit.

 _"How obnoxious,"_ he softly complained to himself as he cleaned himself off next to a man sleeping. _"W_ _hy me of all people, and why now of all times?"_

The man swatted the flying sand off of his face, rolling over on a scrap of purple satin messily cut off, seemingly with a blade. He was lying in front of a stand that sold candles, each imitating the scent of a different spice. Bread Boy looked away, tossing a few dollars onto the man's face, and quickly exited the scene as he pocketed a cardamom candle. He didn't want to be seen being generous to a _pawn_.

_But could I, or anyone, have helped it? Despite where someone may lie on a hierarchy pyramid, are they any less deserving of a good life as someone who's above them?_

No. He quickly rid of the thought. Tender-hearted thoughts couldn't infiltrate his mind, especially not at a time like this. He walked forward, each step being heavier than the last, not only with his weariness, but with the weight of his guilt.

\---

He stood in the middle of the foyer, crossing his arms and tapping his foot against the tiled mosaic floors. The sole of his loafer made a soft tapping sound, but it still was loud enough for it to echo. A passing servant, who carried tightly rolled towels, quickly attended to him.

"Ah, Bread Boy! It's been a while since you've visited. Is there anything you need?"

"Yes. I wish to meet with His Highness. Where is he?" he quickly responded impatiently, glaring down at the scrawny boy.

The servant cowered submissively, slightly bowing. "Oh, of course. He's in the study room. Would you like me to lead you?"

But Bread Boy had already briskly walked off, speedily ascending the stairs. The servant made a soft "hmph" and went on with his day.

The study room was filled with light from the windows that lined the walls of the room. The room itself consisted of two velvet armchairs, a small coffee table, and a bureau desk. The room was decorated with gold ornaments and tiles that made intricate designs on the walls. Seated at the desk was the sultan himself, twirling a feather pen as he busily skimmed through documents that piled up high on his tabletop. Bread Boy lightly knocked on the open door. 

"I've returned."

The sultan perked up, hearing him, and gave a welcoming smile. 

"Welcome back. We've missed you." He set down the feather pen. "Please, come in."

Bread Boy smoothed out a wrinkle in his suit as he came inside, seating himself in one of the armchairs. He made eye contact with the sultan, whose graying curly locks wore a long white cotton robe.

"Business has been going well since we partnered up. Our economy is on a very stable road towards recovery."

"Ah, is that so?" The baker crossed his legs, resting his arm on the chair rest.

"Very much so, yes. I cannot thank you more. But, I've gotten ahead of myself. What brings you here?"

"Mmm..." Bread Boy looked down at the ground, before locking eyes with his business partner once more. "Your Majesty, it is a bit hard to have an entire empire relying on just one small business. I fear that within a few months, our success will collapse once more. And surely that would cause some chaos."

"Oh, but you've been doing so well! And it's only been three months. You can't say all those things for sure," the leader replied with a hearty chuckle.

"But it doesn't seem so far-fetched, does it? Distribution of goods and supplies from only one source that's severely underfunded will probably not sustain you for more than half a year." Bread Boy leaned in, resting his hands on the coffee table. "We need a stabler source. If we want to achieve a stable economy, we need to make sure our foundation isn't weak."

The sultan paused to think, stroking his long beard with his fat hands. He nodded. 

"Yes... yes, you're right, Bread Boy. How do you suggest we accomplish that?"

He triumphantly smiled as he placed the Business Business contract on the table.

"My business is a part of the Business Business company. If we can get them to help support the empire, you could receive even more supplies and goods besides bread and grain. In comparison to the opportunity posed, I give a very, very thin sliver of the success the company could provide for you."

Convinced just by the elegance and persuasion in Bread Boy's tone, the sultan quickly signed it off before returning it to him.

"Off you go, now. When you return I expect to see every street lined with gold."

They both laughed.

"Sure thing, Your Highness. Sure thing."

And with that, Bread Boy quickly left the Erdogan, heading straight for the airport. He'd finished his task successfully.

He was no longer Bread Boy, but Bread Man.

\---

Just a few blocks down from Bread Man's bakery was Annabel's knife shop. It wasn't much of a shop, though -- though the store front looked like a shop, upon entering one would find it to be more like an underground alleyway. That was his first stop once he arrived home.

There, he found a curious trapdoor in the back of the shop. He hadn't seen it before, although he didn't frequent the shop often enough to be sure of it. With his flour-dusted hand, he lifted the wooden door open. Underneath it was a long ladder, descending into a dark room. Bread Man looked down at it hesitantly. A sensible, cautious person would have left it and gone elsewhere, but the baker was of a different kind. He made the bold move to go down, leaving his suitcase at the entrance. The ladder was surprisingly sturdy, making barely a creak as he slowly stepped down. He felt his foot touch the ground and let himself hop off the ladder, turning around to see what laid in front of him.

He was met by a room. Seemingly a storage room. Stray boxes were strewn about, but didn't distract him from the three doors that were in front of him: an 8-panel door, painted white; a small blue door, just about big enough to fit a small mouse through; and a grander, rounded entry door, made of cedar wood. What caught his eye, though, was a large tunnel on the side. Though not as impressive and beautiful as the other doors, Bread Man chose to enter through it anyways. 

It was pitch black. Like he'd gone completely blind. To guide him through, he quickly lit the candle he bought from the Ottoman Empire, and proceeded on until he came across a turtle, who sat against the wall of the tunnel.

"Your candle smells nice," the turtle said to him softly with a sad expression.

"Rupert!" Bread Man exclaimed with surprise.

"Rupert?"

"It's you, Rupert!"

"It's... me?" The turtle looked down at himself. "I suppose it is. How are you doing? And what's the scent of that candle?"

"Cardamom. And I'm doing alright. Work is good, with no pay. As I like it, obviously."

"Ah, of course. Work in Business Business is always good. N-no pay is... excellent..." Rupert said, slightly trembling with fear as the last sentence exited his mouth. "I don't suppose you're willing to part ways with your candle? It gets lonely and dark down here. And it smells very nice! I could offer you a knife in exchange."

"Absolutely." Why wouldn't he be? He'd bought it from a peasant, after all. Bread Man placed the candle down by the turtle's side, being careful not to crack the glass. In response, the turtle handed him a knife.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anything better," the turtle responded with a sad, weary smile. It was clear that he'd been down here for a long time.

Attached to the knife was a tag:

_"This knife has been certified for use in combat in the Knife Shop. Usage of non-certified knives in combat will result in disqualification or death. To certify a knife, talk to Howard. Sincerely, Howard."_

"Who's Howard?" he asked as he pocketed the turtle's knife.

"Howard makes the rules down here. Otherwise it'd be total chaos," said Rupert, matter-of-factly. "He lives somewhere through the white door."

"... should I go talk to him?"

"Sure, if you have questions about knives. But you could always go explore other places. I hear there's really good sales down here somewhere, but I've never tried looking for them myself."

The turtle seemed wise, so Bread Man asked him a final question. An important one.

"How do I secure the position of employee of the year, Rupert?"

"Employee of the year? Why, all you have to do is prove your devotion and loyalty to Business Business! And for you I’m sure that won’t be a problem." This response seemed... automatic. Like he'd had it memorized rather than having said it from the heart. It was clear that the turtle had worked the majority of its long life under the clutches of Business Business.

Bread Man nodded and left promptly to his bakery, picking up his suitcase (which he left behind irresponsibly -- surprisingly, it wasn't stolen). He'd done many things within the past few days, but was in no mood to do more. A nice, long rest would be better.

Yes. That would be good.


End file.
